


Under The Weather

by CavannaRose



Series: Rogues Fics [6]
Category: Outsiders (Comics), Suicide Squad (Comics), The Flash (Comics)
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Feels, Fluff, Gen, Sick Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 18:14:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5880817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CavannaRose/pseuds/CavannaRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Owen is sick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under The Weather

Owen stumbled into the den, his face pale and clammy. He flopped down on the couch, hard, eliciting a protest from James who had been sitting there. The older Trickster pushed at the young Boomerang. “Hey kid! I’m sitting he-… Shit you’re hot to the touch! Are you sick?”

James jumped off the couch, watching horrified as Owen moaned and toppled over, occupying the entire couch now. The redhead’s arm covers his face. “Go ‘way, I’m dying.” Trickster poked the young Rogue, earning himself another low sound of displeasure.

Shaking his hands fretfully he quickly backed out of the room. “I’m… Gonna get your dad… or someone… Someone else. Yes. That’s a good idea. A different person than me.” He fled through to the kitchen, wringing his hands fretfully. 

“Oi yer bleedin’ drongo! Watch where yer goin!” Digger rubbed his head where the fridge door had tried to close on him. Trust Trickster to go barrelling around and injuring a bloke who just wanted a tinny after a long day. “Catch yerself, James, what’s yer rush?”

The nervous Rogue bounced from foot to foot, his face drawn with worry.  ”Your Owen-son-whatcha-thingy! He’s all damp and broken! Sick! He’s sick I mean!” He tugs on Digger’s jacket sleeve. “Go fix him!”

Captain Boomerang carefully set down the unopened can of beer, brushing past James and through to the living room. He took one look at the young man on the couch and gathered him up in his arms, carrying down the hall. “Yer look like a dero, boy. What yer been into?” 

His voice was surprisingly gentle, and it took Owen a moment to figure out who was carrying him. “Put me down dad… Just let me die in peace.”

His father tutted gently, not putting him down until they reached Owen’s bedroom. Carefully he pulled the boy’s boots and scarf off and tucked him in. “There ain’t a Buckley’s a that, boy, yer a Rogue, and my son, we take care of our own, yer know that.” He went down the hall to Sam’s room, digging around in the other man’s desk until he had an armful of pill bottles and assorted paraphernalia. Scudder was always prepared for anything.

He brought his found treasures, a glass of water and a damp cloth to the boy’s room, watching him wash down a handful of pills before making him lay back down with the cloth on his head. He sat himself down in a chair close by, pulling a rolled up Sports Illustrated out. “It ain’t anythin’ classy like Mark would find, but I figgered I could read ya sommat til yer fell asleep.”

Five minutes later the halting cadence of Digger stumbling over a complicated word in the article caused Len to look in, taking in the picture of father and son. He shook his head, withdrawing quietly before he was noticed.


End file.
